Lights Out

It had been a long time since I watched the sunset.

What better use of my extended vacation than to gather inspiration from watching the sun strip-off its bright clothing, and go skinny-dipping in the deep blu...err...greyish sea.

I intended to wax lyrical about each wave emptying itself on the shore, the sun melting into the horizon, while pretty little plastic bags scuttled to and fro ... you know ... deep meaningful stuff.

However, a sudden rise in the tide drove out a few creatures hitherto hidden from view.

A Casanova; wiry and with an upturned collar, helped his blushing belle scamper out of their love nest. Now that the water had reclaimed the path they had taken to the love nest, there was only one way out.

They had to make the climb of shame. Slowly negotiating tetrapods, in plain sight of the general boulevard population.

My fellow onlookers included sari-clad behemoths who clucked disapprovingly while their linen held their bellies hostage. A few meters away from them, sat penis pinchers- self-pleasuring men who kept count of the women passers-by, by pinching themselves when they passed.

Everyone turned their attention to the climbers. I watched them struggling- hopping onto one tetrapod, ambling past the next one. Everyone hoped in unison that they would slip and land on their backsides

Steadily they climbed, before I realised it, they were in front of me, all that stood between them and me was a tiny chasm. Casanova reached out his hand. Everyone stared at me now. I wondered where his hand had been.

As I pulled him to safety, I felt the stares on me. I had robbed from my fellow viewers the sadistic pleasure of watching Casanova falling into the water.

He pulled his girl to the boulevard, they walked away, and everything returned back to normal. Penis pinchers maintained an impressive pace, aunties belched, while the sea quietly extinguished the light.

It still has been a long time since I watched the sunset.

Elbows and Apologies

Trains. More specifically the Mumbai local.

Nothing quite epitomizes Mumbai as much as these overflowing, clanking, smelly and loud personifications of its residents. Unfortunately for me, I love the trains, the different characters one comes across, the tiny fibs you overhear, the eunuchs scaring the b'jesus out of Mumbai-noobs...the little things

I especially enjoy the irony at play, when one minute people elbow each in the nose to get into the train, snarling and frothing at the mouth, and a few minutes later they are touching the arm of the same person in a bizarrely holy apology for just brushing against them.

Such is the power of the Mumbai local, fanatics turn into sages, then back into fanatics as they struggle to get out at their stop.

"Hey you! yes you the person I almost gave a concussion to while getting into the train. 

My arm just grazed yours a second ago, accept my sincerest apology for it, as I touch your arm then touch my chest as a penance for my sin. " 

Owing to the inordinate time I spend among my 'local' companions, be prepared for frequent helpings of the same.

The Measure of Money

Indians have a reputation for being cheap, at least that's what I gather from my endless hours of watching Russell Peters hilariously rip apart my most variegated of civilizations.

My limited knowledge about outsider's views about my culture is limited to a few film and stand-up comedy stereotypes. Be it the sing-song accent, the hairiness, the malodour and the fact that we're all either doctors or engineers, all our idiosyncrasies have been covered, yet for the life of me, I never could identify with them.

I probably laughed harder, than the American Joe who was watching the same show half a globe away, but I never connected to it, I never thought we were cheap until it hit me like a frozen venky's broiler.

I realized that my parents, like a lot of other goans, used meat as a measure of expense!

Showing off my new pair of over-priced headphones, I expected a reprimanding "why did you spend so much money on these?", instead I got a matter-of -fact "Shaa...we could have bought 12 kilos of chicken, with that much of money men"... as though the sudden comparison of my headphones to fowl would make me see the error of my ways.

Every goan child knows what I'm talking about, if not chicken, maybe venison, beef, or pork our expenditure is assessed by the current retail rate of the meat of the season

If I took it a little further, just a teensie bit, imagine what the conversation between messrs X and Y would be like...

X: "Nice phone men. How much?" 

Y: "40 kilos of chicken re!"
X: "40 kilos?! What a rip off! I could've got it for 39 kilos men...that too boneless!"
Y: "Arre I bought it when bird flu was there re...no one was wanting to buy it that time"
X: "Ah, smart fellow men!"


Gotta love our faithfulness to the barter system men!

First Words

So here I am, in the 'blogosphere' about 500 hundred years after blogging stopped being cool.

Why you ask? well, because I have to- apparently a copywriter has to have a blog, somewhere to spew his words and elucidate his propensity.
And somewhere to use words like elucidate and propensity.

If I had a penny for every time someone asked me if I had a blog, I'd have four pennies
But those four pennies aren't to be taken lightly, especially since their donors were my interviewers.

I have no idea what monster this blog will grow up to be, but ugly as it will turn out, it's mine and it will bite.

So just stroke it gently, just like you would your boss' ego, and everything will be just fine.

Oh look, I think he likes you!